


The Ones We Choose

by dairesfanficrefuge_archivist



Category: Highlander - All Media Types
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2001-03-28
Updated: 2001-03-28
Packaged: 2018-12-18 05:40:54
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,728
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11867883
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dairesfanficrefuge_archivist/pseuds/dairesfanficrefuge_archivist
Summary: Methos is caught in the middle when his old friend Michael comes looking for MacLeod's head. The catch: Michael is one of the "good guys". . .and all he wants is to avenge the "murder" of Richie Ryan.





	The Ones We Choose

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Daire, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [Daire's Fanfic Refuge](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Daire%27s_Fanfic_Refuge). Deciding to give the stories a more long-term home, I began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in August 2017. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [Daire's Fanfic Refuge's collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/dairesfanficrefuge/profile).

The Ones We Choose by Charlotte D.

_The Ones We Choose_

By Charlotte D. 

**Comments:** A closer look at the power of the Quickening. 

**Summary:** Methos is caught in the middle when his old friend Michael comes looking for MacLeod's head. The catch: Michael is one of the "good guys". . .and all he wants is to avenge the "murder" of Richie Ryan. 

**Disclaimer:** The usual--I have no claim to any of the characters in this story. Duncan, Joe, Methos, Richie, Tessa, and others all belong to the wonderful people who created them. I can only claim the character of Michael. . .and only because he is kind enough to let me take credit for him. LOL! 

**Author's Note:** Although this story has been Beta read by a great friend, I can't promise that there aren't a few typos still. This story takes place after "Not To Be" and deals with how an outsider viewed the death of Richie Ryan. . .and now wants justice for it. All comments and criticisms are welcome. 

* * *

**Chapter 1**

Paris, France   
Present Day 

Methos sat at a table in his favorite restaurant, quietly sipping a cup of coffee as he read the morning paper. It was a beautiful day in Paris. Almost perfect. He had plans to meet Joe and MacLeod and-- 

The presence of another Immortal filled him then, mocking his thoughts. 

"Well, at least it started out as a good day," he sighed, looking around the room. Every eye in the restaurant turned as a man dressed all in black entered. He was a striking figure, tall and proud with well-muscled shoulders and arms. He had dark black hair and, Methos knew, as equally dark eyes. 

"Maybe it is a good day after all," he smiled in recognition. The man met his gaze from across the room and nodded. 

"Methos," he spoke as he walked to the table. "It's been a couple of decades, at least." 

"At least," Methos agreed, indicating to the chair opposite him. "Join me. You look well, Michael." 

"Excuse me, Mr. Michaels," a waiter approached and spoke to the other man. "Would you like a table or will you be joining Mr. Pierson?" 

"I believe he will be joining me," Methos answered. 

He sat in silence as Michael gave the waiter his order and the man scurried off. "Pierson?" he inquired. "Nice alas. Last time we met it was David Something-Or-Other." 

"Sinclair," he added. "And now it is Adam Pierson." 

"Adam," Michael softly repeated. "Interesting choice." 

"Well, I wasn't blessed with a common name like Michael," he countered. "I have to invent an interesting alias every few years." 

"I lost my best one," the other man sighed. "Michael Jordan." 

Methos threw his head back and laughed, "Michael Jordan? You?" 

"I cannot tell you how many years that one served me well. I can't even use it anymore without getting the references to the basketball player," he complained. "And, technically, I had it first. Now I have to settle for Jordan Michaels." 

"Staying as close to the original name as possible, eh?" 

"I've learned it cuts down on confusion. The older I get, the simpler I want things." 

"Welcome to my world," he joked, toasting with his coffee cup. "Jordan Michaels now, is it? Well, I suppose it is better than Angel. Or the Michael Angelo you used that time. Tell me, have you ever realized that once you use an alias, a mortal comes along and makes it famous?" 

He ignored the question and reminded, "No one has called me 'Angel' in a couple of centuries. You and yours are probably the only ones left who even remember that." 

"As I recall, we called you 'Angel' with heavy sarcasm," Methos corrected. 

"And I believe we called you one of the Horsemen, with much fear," Michael smiled, softening his features. He was a handsome man, nearly flawless some would say. If you liked the rugged look, that was. And even if not, few could deny that his face looked as if it had been chiseled from stone. A beautiful specimen indeed. "But, alas, I am the last of mine." 

"And I am the last of mine," Methos revealed. "The other Horsemen are dead." 

"I can't say that I am sorry in the least," he stated evenly, showing neither shock nor surprise at the news. "I didn't think anyone could take Kronos. Not that I didn't try to look for him, he just eluded me." 

" _You_ went out headhunting?" Methos stated in surprise. 

"I almost had him once, too," Michael sighed. "He came to the town were I was living in the States. But he opened fire with an automatic weapon, and I had to disappear and start over elsewhere." 

"Paris is an excellent place to lose one's self," he pointed out. 

"I am not here to 'lose myself', as you put it," Michael revealed. "I am looking for someone. One of us." 

"You have changed," Methos pointed out. "There was a time when you never went looking for a fight. You always said the world was black and white. You stood in the white, and you let the wicked come for you." 

Michael sighed, stating, "I guess I got older. I realized that some men stand in the gray. And those are the ones you must step out of the white for." 

"Anyone I know?" he asked. 

"I should hope not. I would hate to know you were keeping company with this sort again. His name is MacLeod," he revealed. "Duncan MacLeod." 

Methos nearly chocked on his sip of coffee. Forcing all emotion from his face, he casually inquired, "What do you want him for?" 

"He killed a friend of mine. And for that, he will die." 

"Who was your friend?" he hesitantly asked, fearing he already knew the answer. 

Michael confirmed his fear when he said two simple words. "Richie Ryan." 

* * *

**Chapter 2**

"I can't believe that Methos missed the art exhibit," Joe sighed in worry. "That's not like him." 

"You think he's in trouble?" Duncan MacLeod asked. He and Dawson had waited for hours for Methos to show up. When he had not, they had returned to his barge. He had hoped to find a message from the man, but none had been waiting for them. 

"What do you think?" Dawson pressed. 

"I think he can take care of himself," he assured. The presence of another Immortal filled him then, and he turned in time to see the door swing open and Methos bounce through. 

"Where the hell have you been?" Joe angrily demanded. "Do you know that Mac was starting to worry?" 

"Mac was?" he asked, raising an amused eyebrow. "Actually, I was off doing a favor for MacLeod. Here, consider it an early Christmas present." 

Duncan curiously took the envelope, opening it and taking out a plane ticket. "This is a one-way ticket to Egypt." 

"The pyramids are astounding this time of year," Methos praised. 

"I know. I've already seen them," he replied, handing him the ticket back. 

"So you don't like Egypt. How about Rome, then? Or Alaska? Siberia isn't as bad as they say and neither is-- " 

"Methos," he sighed, turning serious. "You're obviously trying to convince me to leave France. What's wrong?" 

"Let's just say that there is trouble brewing," he sighed. "Michael is in town." 

"Michael?" he asked in confusion. 

"Michael of Jordan." 

"Michael of Jordan?" Joe stated in awe. "I've read about him in the archives. I didn't know you and he knew one another." 

"All the old ones know Michael," he assured. "Let's just say he was the Wyatt Earp of our times." 

"He is as close to perfect as an Immortal gets," Dawson added. "He's damn near a Saint." 

"He had good teachers," Methos reminded. "They made him into quite a fighter. His first teacher was one of the wisest men I have ever known. His name was Jonathan. He wasn't a bad fighter, either. He taught Michael well, and they stayed close for many years. They made it their purpose in life to fight anything evil that crossed their paths. Jonathan was so old he remembered when Moses led his armies into Canaan. He even served in the high ranks of Moses' army, right along side his number one lieutenant Joshua. He was with them when they conquered Palestine. And then he served under Joshua when they took the city of Jericho. 

"And Michael," Methos shook his head in awe. "Well, he was a warrior to the end, that one. He put himself on the line for any cause he believed to be a just one. He was a friend to prophets and even a few of The Twelve Disciples, or so I have been told. He and Jonathan would separate and go their different ways over the years, but fate always had a way of bringing them back together. But by the time the Crusades came about, things had changed for both of them. Michael was young and full of fire. So he set out to change the world. Right all the wrongs. Jonathan was older and wiser. He was tired of the fighting and had already retreated to Holy Ground by then, his books and religions keeping him company. He lived there for centuries, up until someone took his head." 

"I know Michael," Duncan reassured. "We met centuries ago." 

"And you had an encounter with him a few years past in Seacouver, Washington, didn't you?" 

"Yes," Duncan nodded, recalling to mind the warning Michael had left him with all those years ago. He ran a hand through his black hair, sighing sadly, "This is about Richie, isn't it?" 

* * *

**Chapter 3**

**Seacouver, Washington  
1992**

Duncan MacLeod stood patiently at the desk of Sergeant Powell at the police department. He and Tessa had returned from the cabin two days ago. There he had found a message from his friend and clansman Connor MacLeod. 

_The boy is still in town. He has yet to report anything to the police. He needs watching._

The boy, he thought with a sigh. Richie Ryan. He had witnessed Duncan take the head of Slan Quince. He had seen the Quickening. He had also watched as Mac had fished Connor out of the river and pull a dagger from his chest. Connor had then stood and walked away without any sign of having been wounded. But he had reminded Duncan that the boy had seen too much. 

Mac wasn't sure what he would tell him. All of it, eventually. But as for right now. . . 

"Mr. MacLeod," Powell smiled as he walked towards him. "The desk clerk said you wanted to talk about Richie Ryan. Can I hope that you have changed your mind and you are now here to press charges against him?" 

"No," he insisted. "Actually, I am looking for him. Can you tell me where to find him?" 

"You know I can't do that." 

"I'm not looking to hurt the kid," he assured. "I just wanted to. . .offer him a job." 

He had seized on that as a last second possibility, and Powell frowned at the words. "The kid rips you off, and now you want to give him a job? Isn't that like asking the fox to guard the chicken coop?" 

"Can you just tell me where he is?" 

Powell shook his head with a laugh. "You are the 'Save The World' type, aren't you? I will check his file and give you the last address we had for him. I can't promise you he will be there, though." 

* * *

**Chapter 4**

Richie Ryan opened the apartment door on the third knock. He stood still for a moment, fear and horror at the sight of the man on the other side. He had known this would happen. One of the men with the swords would come for him eventually and shut him up. After all, he had seen this man commit murder. Of course the man wanted his life. 

Duncan caught the door with his hand as the kid tried to slam it in his face. He pushed it back open and stepped into the apartment. The kid looked terrified, he realized. 

"Richie, is someone there?" a booming voice called. 

Ryan glanced over his shoulder as his foster father, Frank, stepped from the kitchen, a beer in one hand and a cigarette in the other. Frank was a jerk and he hated the man. But even he didn't want to see the guy die like the man on the bridge had. 

MacLeod eyed the short, fat man, disliking him instantly. He looked almost as messy and unkept as the apartment did. 

"Who are you?" Frank demanded. 

"I'm Duncan MacLeod," he stated, offering Richie what he hoped was a reassuring smile. "I'm friends with Richie." 

"If he owes you money--" 

"He doesn't," MacLeod interrupted. "In fact, I was hoping to offer him a job working for me." 

"A job?" Richie spoke in disbelief. "You honestly think I would work for you!" 

"Shut your smart mouth!" Frank yelled. "I am sick of supporting you! I think it is time you pulled your own weight for a change." 

He had already had too much to drink, Richie realized with an inward groan. Frank's wife Ellen was at work tonight, and Frank was drunk and now pissed. He would be the one to suffer this night. If MacLeod even let him live, that is. 

"You got a lot of nerve, mister," Frank turned on MacLeod then. "You think I don't know who you are?" 

"Why don't you tell me who I am," Duncan invited. 

"You're one of his fences," he accused. Turning back to Ryan, he stuck a finger in the boy's face as he accused, "You've been holding out on me, haven't you? You've been fencing stuff behind my back and keeping the money!" 

Richie felt himself pale. It was true, he had been doing all of that. He had to think of himself. He would turn eighteen soon and he knew Frank would kick him out the moment the checks from the State stopped rolling in. He had broken into MacLeod's place in the hope of starting a little nest egg of his own to use when the blessed day of his eighteenth birthday rolled around. Instead. . .instead he had found murderers and men with swords and headless corpses that he still had nightmares about. And now this. 

"Haven't you?!" Frank shouted the accusation. 

"No," Ryan tried to deny it. 

"Don't lie to me," Frank snapped, backhanding him hard across the face. The force of the blow knocked him to the floor and he braced himself for the kick he knew always followed. 

But not this time. He watched in disbelief as the man called MacLeod moved like the wind, grabbing Frank and slamming him against the wall. Frank tried to fight back, swinging at the man. 

It was his chance, Richie realized, and he claimed it. Pushing to his feet, he raced towards the open door. 

"Richie!" MacLeod called to his fleeting back, turning to follow him. Frank attacked him from behind. He easily deflected the man's assault, punching him hard in the stomach. The man gasped and doubled over in pain. 

"Where will he go?" MacLeod demanded. 

Frank gasped in pain, "Look, if he ripped you off, we can make a deal. If he's cheating you, then he is cheating me, too." 

"He steals for you?" Duncan snapped in disbelief. It was starting to make sense to him now. This man made his living off kids. He made them steal and fence the goods for him. 

"Of course he does what I tell him, too," Frank admitted, afraid to tell this man anything but the honest truth. "If he wants to eat, he helps put the food on the table." 

_Or he gets the hell beaten out of him,_ MacLeod silently added, fury making his hands shake. No wonder the kid was so defensive and cocky. He was scared. Of Duncan. Of Frank. Probably of the whole damn world. 

"Where will he go?" he repeated with more force this time. 

"H-He shoots basketball at some church's courtyard sometimes," Frank stammered. "Over on Ocean Street, I think." 

"Good," Duncan smiled almost pleasantly. "Thank you." 

"Y-Your welcome," he nervously stated. 

"By the way, Frank?" 

"Huh?" 

"This is for Richie," he proclaimed, punching him squarely in the jaw. He watched in disgust as the bald man sank to the floor. Stepping over his body, he went out in search of the boy. 

* * *

**Chapter 5**

"I leave town for a few weeks, and you get into trouble." 

Richie Ryan started at the sound of the voice. He didn't have to turn to know who it was. Michael. His friend. His best friend, perhaps. He hurriedly wiped the back of his hand across his eyes, hoping to erase all signs of the tears he had shed on his run over. 

It wasn't Frank hitting him. He could deal with that. He had a thousand times in the past. It was the other one. MacLeod. The man wanted him dead. He had raced from the apartment and had faltered then. Where did he go? He couldn't run to his friends. They could no better hide him from MacLeod than he could avoid the man himself. 

So instead he had come here. To Michael's church. He had met Mike six years ago. He had been in between foster homes and staying at a local orphanage. It had been Christmas and Michael and his fellow church members had gone to bring gifts to the "orphans". He had thought only people in the movies did things like that. 

Michael had seemed to take an interest in him. It had made him nervous at first. He had not been sure why the man had wanted to spend so much time with him. A part of him thought Mike could be some type of pervert who liked young boys. But the man had never tried to hurt him in any way. In fact, he had always been kind and patient with Richie. He had invited him to attend his church where he was an associate pastor. 

It was hard for Richie to comprehend that someone who looked only a few years older than himself could have everything together like Mike did. He was smart and resourceful, as well as deeply educated. He made a sermon sound more like an intriguing lesson rather than a fire and brimstone lecture. He had never admitted it aloud, but he loved attending the man's study classes. He knew so much about history and religion and the Bible. Just life, in general. 

He had told Michael once that he spoke of history almost like he had been there to witness it himself. He had laughed at that and stated that maybe he had in a previous life. 

Michael had always made this place seem safe to him. Holy Ground, he had often referred to it. A place where no one would hurt him. Ever. 

Richie had never believed it, but the notion had seemed nice. So often when things got bad with Frank, he would escape here under the pretense that he wanted to shoot hoops in the courtyard behind the church. But it was for the safety this place offered him. Michael seemed to know that, but he never pressed the matter. 

"Did you think I would not hear about your recent arrest?" Michael pressed when he got no reply the first time. 

"How was your trip?" Richie asked, still refusing to look him in the face. 

"Unproductive," he sighed. "I was away longer than I had originally intended." 

"I was starting to think you weren't coming back," Ryan softly admitted. 

Michael heard the insecurities in his voice, and his heart went out to the boy. He knew Richie judged him to be around his early twenties. If the boy only knew. But he would someday. Richie would learn of both their Immortality in time. And maybe then he would understand why Michael disappeared for weeks on end. 

Kronos. The sick, malicious monster was still out there. Still killing. He had been searching for that man's head for well over three thousand years, and he hadn't found him yet. He had been so close on his recent trip. Kronos had had the better luck, though, and managed to escape him. 

But now he was back in Seacouver, and he had the problem of Richie Ryan to solve. He was good kid underneath all that arrogance and anger. He just had to keep him on that path. 

Often, he had considered taking Richie from his foster parents and disappearing with him. He would tell Richie the truth about who and what he was. And, when the time came for Ryan to become one of their own, he would tell Richie that he, too, was an Immortal. He was smart enough to ensure that no mortal would find them. 

But Immortals. . .He had a long line of enemies. And Kronos, Caspian, and Silas where at the top of his list. Or perhaps he was at the top of theirs. They were the type of men who would kill Richie Ryan just to spite him. And he knew that the Horsemen would come for him eventually, save Methos. Methos would never raise a blade to him. Methos couldn't. His soul wouldn't allow for it now. 

But Kronos would eventually get tired of being hunted and come after him. He didn't want Richie to be a casualty if that happened. 

Richie took a shot at the basket then, the ball swishing through the hoop and rolling to Michael's feet. He picked it up and bounced it on the concrete several time. He would never understand the fascination mortals had for this game. 

He took a shot at the basket, but missed. Richie laughed as he rebounded the ball, pointing out, "For a man with the name of Michael Jordan, you honestly can't play ball worth a damn." 

"Watch your language," he scolded, brushing a lock of black hair from his eyes. "Besides, I was the original Michael Jordan." 

Richie shook his head at that. Sometimes this man made no sense at all. 

"What happened to your face?" Michael suddenly asked, noticing for the first time the redness of his cheek and the slight discoloration that would soon become a bruise. His voice took on a low, dangerous level as he hissed, "Did Frank do that?" 

"Leave it alone," Richie pleaded. 

Michael reached for his arm as he started to walk away, his hold loosening when the boy inhaled sharply, as if in pain. He pushed the sleeve of Ryan's sweatshirt up to reveal several ugly bruises. The type one gets when his arm is twisted behind his back. 

Anger settled in his stomach like a brick at the sight. He may be a religious man, but his was an old religion. He had lived in a time where an eye for an eye was literal. A life for a life held as the law of the land. He had lived it and believed it and fought for it. He had even died for it a few times. 

He had paid Frank a visit some time back. They had had an interesting "talk" that had resulted in Frank being much, much nicer to his wife and Richie for a time. But he had been gone from Seacouver for so long hunting Kronos he supposed that Frank had forgotten about their little "deal". But he would have to remind the man. 

"Don't go anywhere near Frank," Richie suddenly pleaded. "I don't want you involved in. . ." 

"In what, Richie?" he demanded when the voice trailed off. 

"You wouldn't believe me," the teen sighed in defeat. "I am not even sure I believe it myself." 

"Talk to me," Michael insisted, gentling his tone. "You can trust me. I will believe anything you say." 

"There is a man who wants me dead. I saw him. . .kill someone, sort of. I think." 

"Come on," Michael ordered, resting a hand on his shoulder and steering him towards the parking lot. "We will figure this out at my place." 

* * *

**Chapter 6**

Michael had just pulled his car onto the main highway when he felt it. The presence of another Immortal filled the car, touching his soul. He gripped the steering wheel harder. Not now. Not with Richie in the car. This was what he had always feared. 

A black T-Bird was coming towards him and Richie released a horrified gasp, sinking lower into his seat. "God, that's him, Michael. The guy who's trying to kill me!" 

"What?" he demanded, speeding up his car and distancing himself from the other Immortal. 

"He wants me dead," Richie insisted. "I saw him cut a man's head off with a sword." 

* * *

**Chapter 7**

"You don't believe me, do you?" Richie Ryan sighed, leaning back against the sofa of Michael's apartment. "Why should you believe me? I mean, men with swords, chopping each other's heads off and lightening coming out of their bodies." 

"I believe you, Richie," Michael finally stated. He stood staring out the window, his back to Ryan. This was the worst thing that could have happened! This other Immortal obviously knew, as he did, who and what Ryan was. This man could either wanted his head or wanted him to know the truth. Either way, he intended to ensure that Ryan lived through this. 

"Do you know the name of the man? The one who came to Frank's looking for you?" he asked. 

"Duncan MacLeod," he admitted. 

"MacLeod?" Michael stated in relief, turning back to face his young friend. "What did he look like?" 

"I don't know. Tall. Dark. Black ponytail. He had some type of accent and he said he was from the Clan MacLeod or somewhere like that." 

Michael took a relieved breath then, smiling in assurance, "Get some sleep. You can use the guest room." 

"I can't stay here," Richie insisted. "What if he comes looking for me? You could be in danger if that happened." 

"Don't worry," he smiled. "I just want you to rest." 

And tomorrow, he silently added, I will go see my old friend MacLeod. 

* * *

**Chapter 8**

"Tessa!" Duncan called as he entered their home. 

"I'm in here," she called from the kitchen, the inviting aroma of a late dinner following her words. "You are just in time to eat." 

He entered the kitchen then, giving her a kiss in the process. He stole a steamed vegetable from the stove and nibbled on it. 

"Did you find him?" she asked. 

"Yes. And no. He ran when he saw me. I didn't get a chance to talk to him," he answered. 

"Mac, what are you going to tell him when you do?" she pressed. 

"I don't know. The truth, I guess." _He will learn it eventually,_ MacLeod silently added. Richie Ryan was a Pre-Immortal. Although he would never tell the boy that. "His foster father told me where to find him. He went to shoot basketball at a local church. Some of the kids there told me he had left with a church worker only a few minutes before I arrived. They told me where to find the man." 

"And did you go after him?" she asked after his long pause of silence. Sometimes getting answers from this man was like squeezing water from a rock. 

He hesitated then. He had not wanted to tell her about the other Immortal he had felt on his way to the church. Tessa had enough to concern herself about without him adding more weight. After getting the information he needed, he had driven around town in hopes of finding the other Immortal again. But he had not. 

"It was getting late," he offered the half-truth. "I figured it could wait until tomorrow." 

* * *

**Chapter 9**

"Do you want more pancakes?" Michael asked. 

"No, this is plenty," Richie assured as he poured syrup on the mountain of pancakes on his plate. 

"You eat like a horse," Michael laughed, claiming a seat across from the boy and reaching for his glass of orange juice. He took a long sip from it. 

"I'm a growing boy," he reminded. 

"You remind me of my son," he stated softly. 

"I didn't know you had kids," Richie stated in surprise. 

"I had three once upon a time," he sadly revealed. "Two boys and a girl. You remind me of the eldest of my sons, Wesley." 

Richie's eyes narrowed at that. Michael's voice had taken on a strange sound to it. Almost like an accent. He sounded. . .old. Not like an old man, but like people had talked hundreds of years ago. Or at least that was how they sounded in the movies. But that wasn't possible. "Where are your kids now?" 

"They're gone," he admitted. His wife and their adopted children had died several months after the end of the American Civil War. His wife had been a Southerner, and for her, he had stayed loyal to the South in that war. They had lived through that hellish nightmare. . .Only to have two ex-Confederate soldiers attempt to rob them one night. The men had opened fire on them. He had lived, his family had not. 

"I'm sorry," Richie stated. 

He smiled at the youth and innocence of the boy. Sometime he envied that. His heart went out for what was lost to himself. And for what Richie Ryan would lose in time. His innocence would die eventually. It always happened to their kind. 

But until then, he would keep him safe. And offer him what little bit of normalcy he could. 

* * *

**Chapter 10**

"I'm going to drop you off at the church and then run a few errands," Michael stated as they stepped into the back street behind his apartment building and moved towards his parked car. "I want you to stay in my office until I return. It is Holy Ground. You will be safe there." 

"Why do you always say that?" Richie asked. 

He started to reply, but broke off when he felt another Immortal's presence. He turned to see a rusty, blue truck slowly moving down the street. The window lowered then and the barrel of an automatic weapon was stuck from the glass. Michael caught a glimpse of the gunman's scarred face. 

Kronos, he realized in horror. He threw himself in front of Richie as the shots began. He felt the bullets tear into his chest and torso, knocking him backwards and into the arms of Richie. 

Richie fell to the ground, Michael landing on top of him. He gently rolled the man over, stilling in horror at the sight of his chest. At least a dozen bullet wounds were there. Blood flowed from the gaping wounds and from his nose and mouth. 

"Go," Michael insisted, chocking on the blood in his mouth. In horror, he watched as the truck rolled to a stop and Kronos stepped out. He eyed both Michael and Richie with malicious intent. "Go, Richie. Please. Get help." 

Numbly, Ryan nodded, gently laying his friend back down on the pavement and standing. He raced on shaky legs back towards the apartment building, desperately searching for a phone to call 911. 

Kronos watched as the boy disappeared back into the building, retrieving his sword and twirling it in his hand. He smiled wickedly as he assured, "Don't worry, Michael. The boy will die soon enough. Right behind you. You destroyed the Horsemen! You took away my life! Now I take yours. I have been waiting over three thousand years for this." 

"Hey! What are you doing?" a new voice screamed. 

Kronos turned in time to see a half dozen people racing out of nearby buildings and watching him. He cursed, pointing his sword at Michael as he decreed. "Another time." 

Michael was too weak to reply. He let his head fall back against the pavement. He absently noted the sound of sirens filling the air and people screaming. Richie was back by his side then, gently cradling him in his arms and rambling on about how help was coming. 

Michael struggled to reassure the boy, but no words would come. He drew a painful breath, and then died. 

* * *

**Chapter 11**

Duncan MacLeod pulled into the parking lot of the address he had been given yesterday, curiously watching as dozens of police officers scrambled about. Blue lights flashed everywhere, nearly blinding him. He stepped from his car and glanced around. This was the apartment building where Richie's friend lived, according to the youth he had encountered yesterday. 

"Duncan MacLeod. You do turn up like a bad penny, don't you?" Sergeant Powell called out when he noticed him, taking a step in his direction. 

"Hello, Sergeant," he smiled pleasantly. 

"You dropping by the scene of another investigation. Imagine that," Powell exclaimed. 

"What happened here?" Duncan curiously asked. 

"Someone shot Michael Jordan." 

"The ballplayer?" he asked incredulously. 

"No. A different Michael Jordan. I figured he was a friend of yours." 

"Sorry, never heard of him," MacLeod assured. 

"Really? I would have thought you and he would be friends. I mean, considering that you both have Richie Ryan in common." 

"Richie's here?" he suddenly asked, scanning the crowd. 

"He's over there, talking to one of my detectives," Powell pointed out. "He witnessed the shooting." 

"Excuse me," Duncan pushed past him and moved towards the boy. He was eerily pale, obviously in shock. Blood stained his shirt. It was the same one he had been wearing yesterday, he absently noted. 

Richie saw him then, his eyes widening in fear. He started to step back, but ran into the police car. Duncan moved as quickly to his side as possible, whispering in a low voice, "I am not going to hurt you, Richie. Trust me. Please." 

"I want to see Michael," he sounded like a frightened child with the plea. "They wouldn't let me ride in the ambulance and they won't tell me anything now." 

MacLeod turned as Powell joined then, demanding, "Is he under arrest?" 

"No," the policeman answered. 

"Then I am taking him to the hospital to see his friend." 

"I wouldn't suggest doing that," Powell sighed. 

"Look, I've told you everything I know!" Richie snapped. "The guy had an ugly scar on his face and he shot Michael--" 

"Richie," Powell interrupted, holding his hand up to ward off the angry on-slat. "I just got a call from the hospital. I am sorry to have to tell you this, but Michael didn't make it. He was shot too many times and the wounds were too serious. They pronounced him dead upon arriving at the hospital." 

"No," he shook his head. "Not Mike. Not Mike." 

He was trembling so violently MacLeod feared he would collapse at any moment. He could sense that he boy was barely holding onto his emotions, and he reached for him. 

Richie expected the worst in that instance. He wasn't prepared for the embrace. MacLeod's hug was not too tight. It offered him the chance to pull away if he wanted to. But it had been so long since anyone had held him. It had been so long since anyone had really cared about him. Except Michael, that is. And he was gone. 

Reality sunk in then. He wrapped his arms around MacLeod, fiercely returning the hug, and wept. 

* * *

**Chapter 12**

"It's a damn shame," Sergeant Powell stood outside the guest room where Richie Ryan slept. He had followed MacLeod and the boy back to Duncan's place. 

MacLeod had called a friend who was a doctor to come over and check on the boy. The doctor had given him a mild sedative and then Tessa Noel had taken him to the guest room to sleep. 

"Michael was a good man," Powell stated. "He got a lot of kids off the streets and into re-hab and job programs sponsored by his church." 

"Why would someone want to kill a man like that?" Tessa asked. 

"Because he got a lot of kids off the street," Powell sighed. "In other words, he got them away from their gangs and their pimps and drug dealing friends. He made enemies in the process, though. Most criminals don't like you messing around in their territory. Michael did that a lot, and he made people angry in the process. I guess one of his enemies finally caught up with him." 

"It is a shame, then," Duncan agreed, his thoughts turning back to Ryan. 

"I don't know what kids like Richie will do now without him," Powell admitted. "He was the only one who cared about half of them. You know, that kid never got into trouble when Michael was in town. He was like a blasted saint. But let Mike leave for a few weeks, and he'd started getting into something he shouldn't be doing." 

The ringing of a cell phone cut him off then. He quietly excused himself and answered it. MacLeod paid little attention to the conversation until Powell exploded, demanding to know how "that" could happen. 

"Something wrong?" he asked when the man hung up. 

"Yes," he sighed, rubbing his tired eyes. The morgue has lost the body! How could that happen?! He needed an autopsy and the bullets from the man's chest to trace the gun. "Look, I have to go. Uh, Richie. . .?" 

"Will be fine with us," Duncan reassured. 

"I will show you out," Tessa volunteered, leading the man out of the apartment. 

MacLeod stepped into the guest room then, his attention now fully focused on Ryan. The boy lay sleeping on the bed, his back to Duncan. He moved to stand over him, releasing a sigh. 

Richie lay curled in a tight ball, literally feeling the man's breath on the back of his neck. They thought he was asleep, but he had heard the entire conversation. Michael was dead. He was completely alone. And at the mercy of MacLeod now. 

The sedative had made him feel groggy and drugged. He so wanted to move or yell for help or run from the room. But he was just too tired to do any of those things. 

His gut tightened with dread when MacLeod sat down on the bed beside him. He feared he was about to die. Or worse. And, God knew, there was worse out there. He had had to fight off one of Frank's drunken, perverted friends once. But he was too tired to fight tonight. His mind and body made too sluggish by the drugs. And MacLeod was much stronger than his previous attacker. 

He felt the bed shift and the fear intensified. MacLeod reached for something at the end of the bed. He kept his eyes tightly closed but could still feel the weight of the cover as it was pulled up and tucked around him. 

"Sleep well, Richie," Duncan spoke, lightly tossling his red-blonde curls. 

"Mac?" Tessa called, entering the room. 

He stood from the bed and moved to her side. "Powell is gone," she assured. "Is he still sleeping?" 

"I think so," he answered. 

"What will we do with him?" she inquired. 

"I guess we keep him," Duncan teased. "I promise I will feed and water him and walk him--" 

"Duncan," she scolded him in his attempts to lighten the severity of the situation. 

"He already knows I am different from other men. I just need to explain the rest," he assured. "When he wakes up tomorrow, I will tell him the truth. All of it." 

_The truth._ Those words raced through his mind as he heard them step from the room and shut the door behind them. What was the truth? Richie wondered. He had little time to ponder it, though. The healing, comforting arms of sleep embraced him. 

* * *

**Chapter 13**

Duncan MacLeod slipped out of bed early the next morning, leaving Tessa sleeping soundly. He quietly dressed and crept down the hall to the room where Richie was. He cracked the door open, pleased to find the boy still there and sleeping soundly. 

He would let Tessa and Ryan sleep as long as they liked this morning, he decided. Richie needed it. And Tessa deserved it. She was a good woman, and she loved him despite the pains his Immortality brought into their lives. 

His Immortality. . .and Richie's. The thought had kept him awake nearly all night. He would be honest with the boy today about himself. It was best that Ryan not know about his own special gift until it was his time, though. 

Duncan slipped from the room and made his way towards the kitchen. Maybe he would present Tessa with a little breakfast in bed this morning and-- 

He stilled when he felt the presence of another Immortal. He quickly went in search of his sword and moved towards the feelings. A man waited inside of his and Tessa's antique store. He stood in nearly the exact same place where Richie had been the first night he had encountered the boy. 

"I am Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod," he called loudly. 

"Michael of Jordan," he turned and bowed gallantly. "But you already know that." 

"Michael?" he breathed in disbelief, lowering his weapon. "It's been. . ." 

"Quite a while," he finished. "Last time I saw you, you were freeing escaped slaves in the South." 

"And you were fighting for the wrong side," Duncan sated with a half-smile. 

"Actually, I believe it was Captain Jordan McMichaels who was fighting for the 'wrong side' as you put it. But he was kind enough to help you escape the Rebel troops, wasn't he?" 

Duncan smiled at the old memory. "Not that it did me any good. I got captured by them a day or so later." 

"Yes. Lucas Desiree told me," he assured. "He was one of my better students, you know. A good man. He has a cabin in Steveston. You should pay him a visit soon." 

"What are you doing here?" he hedged. "You usually concentrate your efforts on battles you can choose sides in." 

"In the words of my young student Lucas Desiree: We don't choose sides, MacLeod. We choose people. We get attached to them," he stated with a sad smile. "They are the ones we choose. And, in return, they choose our battles for us. Sometimes they choose right, sometimes they choose wrong. But we honor their choices because we love them. And, without that, we would be nothing. Or at least, I would be nothing. And I pray you have not hurt the one I come here for." 

Realization set in then and he sighed as he stated, "Michael of Jordan. Michael Jordan. Richie's friend." 

"I know he is here. I can feel him. I will take him and be gone now." 

"He saw you die," MacLeod reminded. 

"And he saw you take a head and the Quickening that follows," he added. "It will just make him more likely to believe when I tell him who and what we are." 

"You are dead here," Duncan sighed. "The police are investigating your murder. You have to disappear. Now. Before someone sees you." 

"I have unfinished business. The man who killed me, he is one of us. I have been hunting him for some time. It looks as if he has grown weary of the game, though, and came for me instead." 

"If he gunned you down, then he is not playing by The Rules. My God, Michael, he could just as easily have shot Richie or some other by-stander who won't be reborn." 

"I know," he sighed. "Which is why I will take Richie to Holy Ground. I have a friend named Paul who is an abbot at the Monastery of Saint Christopher." 

"I know Paul," Duncan assured, drawing to mind the image of the Immortal monk who had given him shelter on Holy Ground once. 

"Good. Then you know that Paul will see to Richie's well being until I return. I will find this other Immortal and take his head. Then Richie will be safe." 

"And what if he takes your head instead? Or what if you spend decades searching for him? Besides, do you honestly believe that Richie will stay at a monastery? I've been there. It isn't exactly brimming with the excitement a teenager wants. Come now, Michael, how do you think he will take it if you suddenly reappear and then drag him off to another country and then dump him off on a group of monks? We both know he will rebel against that. He's young. The young ones always do." 

"I know it will be a difficult thing to explain to him, but this Immortal will keep coming for me, MacLeod. I have given him good reason to want me dead." 

"The boy can't win either way," Duncan argued. "Especially if you make him a target of another Immortal. He shouldn't die a mortal's death before his time. And you can't tell him he is one of us before hand, either." 

"I agree that it is not a perfect plan, but do you have any other suggestions?" 

"Leave him here." 

"With you?" Michael suspiciously inquired. 

"I am not going to hurt him," he assured. "In fact, I had already reasoned with my lady friend that he should keep staying with us. And that I had to tell him the truth about what he saw." 

When the other Immortal made no comment, Duncan accused, "You don't trust me not to take his head!" 

"I don't know you that well," he reminded. 

"If that is going to be the logic, then maybe I don't know you that well, either. So maybe we have crossed paths a half dozen times in the last four centuries, but does that give me reason enough to trust you with Richie Ryan's life?" 

"If I wanted him dead, I would have killed him years ago," Michael snapped. 

"And if I wanted him dead, I would have done it yesterday," Duncan mocked. 

"You do make a point," he reluctantly admitted. He paused thoughtfully for a moment before sighing, "I suppose he would be happier staying here than in a monastery. And if I leave town, the man wanting my head will follow, so he will be safe in that regard." 

"Yes," MacLeod agreed. "You will be free to headhunt all you wish. I will see to it that he is taken care of. I will tell him the truth about me. And about you, too, if you like." 

"No," he insisted. "If he believes me alive, he might get some bright idea to try and come after me. I don't want him involved in my affairs. If I win, then I will reveal myself to Richie when the time is right. If I lose, then maybe it is better if he never knew. Let him think that I died in that alley yesterday." 

"Then you agree that he stays here." 

"I guess," he sighed. "But see if you can talk him into going back to school. And be patient with him. He has a tendency to get into trouble more often than not." 

"I will keep him out of trouble," he agreed. "And I will give him a job at the store to occupy his free time. I will try to talk him into finishing high school. I will even read him a bedtime story every night if you like." 

Michael frowned at the sarcasm he read in that last statement. "Take him to church, too. I think you both need it." 

"He will be fine here," Duncan assured. 

The other Immortal watched him with an intent stare, finally admitting, "I judged you to be a good man once. I hope my trust is not being misplaced this day. If anything ever happens to Richie, and it occurs by your hand, I will come for you. Never doubt that. I will come for you. . ." 

* * *

**Chapter 14**

Joe Dawson sighed as the tale ended, "So what happened?" 

"I told Richie the truth about Immortals later that day," Duncan recalled. "But I kept Michael's request and never told him that Michael was one of us. Michael disappeared that day, and I haven't heard word of him since." 

"Until now," Methos sighed. He held the plane ticket out to MacLeod again, stating, "Take a vacation, MacLeod. Go see the pyramids." 

When the stubborn Scotsman refused to take the ticket, Methos released a soft curse before reminding, "Michael is not here to hold hands with you, MacLeod! He wants your head." 

"He swore he would if I ever hurt Richie," Duncan softly spoke, swallowing past the lump of emotion that swelled in his throat. "He always was a man of his word." 

"Which is why you should go see the pyramids," he insisted. "They are astounding this time of year. In the meantime, I will talk him down from his revenge mode." 

"You don't think I can beat him," MacLeod realized, sounding surprised. 

"I think that I lose either way," Methos admitted. "I have very few friends in this world, Mac. Don't make me lose one." 

"I am not asking you to choose sides here." 

"If I had to, it would be Michael," Methos revealed, something old and haunted lingering in his eyes as he spoke. "I owe him that much. Take the trip. Please. Do it because I ask." 

"No," he answered simply. "I won't run from this." 

"Damn your stubborn pride," he angrily swore, turning and leaving the barge. 

Dawson watched him leave, visibly surprised by the angry outburst. Turning back to MacLeod, he inquired, "I wonder what good old Mike has on our friend?" 

"I don't know," Duncan shook his head. "But it does make you wonder, doesn't it?" 

* * *

**Chapter 15**

Methos reached for the cup of coffee that was extended to him, complaining, "I would rather have a beer." 

"I don't drink," Michael reminded with a smile. "It is against my religion." 

"Don't you ever get bored with being so bloody perfect all the time?" he inquired. 

"I am not perfect. Far from it, in fact," he sighed wearily. "What brings you by? And don't say you are here to catch up on old times." 

Methos stirred a small amount of milk into his steaming drink, watching as it blended together. The darkness and the light. Making something that was in between now. Something that was "in the gray" as Michael often put it. Neither black nor white. Good nor bad. Right nor wrong. 

"Duncan MacLeod is a friend of mine," he finally revealed. "A very good friend." 

"Then you should watch your head," Michael advised. "His last really good friend was Richie Ryan. And we both know where he is right now." 

"You weren't there!" Methos suddenly exploded. "You cannot understand what happened the night Richie died." 

"I understand perfectly," he disagreed. "Richie explained it to me. . ." 

* * *

**Chapter 16**

Kansas City, Missouri   
1996 

Richie Ryan parked his bike in front of the fast food restaurant, swinging his stiff body from the motorcycle with a groan. He had been riding since. . .Hell, he had been riding since the night MacLeod had tried to take his head in the dojo. 

Joe Dawson had tried to assure him that it had not been Mac. It had been the Dark Quickening making Duncan do things he wouldn't normally do. He didn't know that, however. All he did know was that a person he had trusted completely had nearly killed him. 

Richie had left Seacouver and had been riding since. Riding. . .and taking heads. There could be only one. That was the only rule that really mattered anymore. 

He had taken one just a few weeks past. He wasn't sure the man's name, just that they had met outside of a movie studio in San Francisco. His bike had been broken down and he had not been in the mood for it. But neither had the other Immortal. They had fought, and he had won. Barely. 

He still shuddered at the memory. It had been a close call. It could easily have gone either way. It just happened that he had been the lucky one that day. 

He had had nightmares about that day since. Seeing the man coming for his head. Only in his dreams, his opponent had won. So he had kept moving, hoping that if he rode hard and fast enough, he might somehow escape his own memories. 

But now he stood in front of some greasy spoon kitchen, starving and exhausted. He slipped his helmet off. The presence of another Immortal took him by surprise. He groaned inwardly, watching as a car pulled into the parking lot and disappeared around the back of the building. 

An invitation for a fight, he realized. The man obviously wanted a little more privacy for their "encounter". He moved around the corner of the building, his hand slipping inside of his jacket and withdrawing his weapon. 

The Immortal had stepped from his car and was nonchalantly leaning against it. His arms were crossed over his chest and his face was downcast as he waited. 

"I'm Richie Ryan," he called to the vaguely familiar man. 

"I know," he replied, lifting his head and turning to the young Immortal. 

Ryan felt his steps falter, his mouth falling agape as he exclaimed, "Michael?!" 

"It has been awhile," he reminded. "You've changed quite a bit." 

"And you haven't changed at all," Ryan pointed out, raising his sword slightly. "You're one of us. . .I don't believe it. Then again, maybe I do. The interest you took in me that time. The way you believed me about the beheading. Dammit! You always talked about 'Holy Ground'! I can't believe I never made the connection--" 

"It is not something you easily assume," Michael laughed. "I had heard rumors of you these last few years. I see MacLeod has taught you how to fight exceptionally well." 

His mouth tightened in anger at the mention of his "teacher". "Yeah," he drawled, "I guess you could say that." 

"Did he teach you to go out headhunting?" he demanded. He had been trying to catch up with this one for months now. Ryan had killed Alec Hill a few weeks ago, and that had been his best lead. "Did he teach you to run from your friends?" 

"I'm not running now, am I?" he challenged. 

"I am not here to fight you," he snapped. "I am here to find out what happened to you. What became of the boy I used to know and why a killer has taken his place?" 

"I am Immortal!" Richie reminded. "And there can be only one." 

"I know that," he insisted. "But that doesn't give you call to hunt down each of our kind and kill them. Just being Immortal is not a reason to take another's life. Get your bike," he suddenly ordered. "Follow me." 

* * *

**Chapter 17**

"This is strangely familiar, isn't it?" Richie asked. 

He sat at the small table in Michael's hotel room, his empty plate before him. His old friend had cooked them both something to eat. Michael always cooked when he was troubled, he recalled. And he always had a way of making people talk to him. He made them feel safe with him. 

He had spilled the entire story of Mac and the Dark Quickening and how his teacher and friend had nearly killed him. Michael stood at the window, his back turned to Richie. It was the exact same stance he had taken the day a seventeen-year-old had first told him of witnessing a beheading. 

How things had changed since then. How he had changed. But Michael still seemed the same. Unchanged. Incorruptible. Immortal. 

"Do you believe me?" he hesitantly asked. 

"Of course I do," he assured. "I told you once that I would always believe you." 

"Yeah, but Dark Quickenings. Good men becoming bad. . ." 

Michael turned then, a hint of a smile on his face as he revealed, "I have seen stranger things, Richie. Although it makes me very sad to know what MacLeod has become. He had such promise. Now. . .now he must be dealt with." 

"You can't fight him," he suddenly insisted. "If you do, and you take his head, then you become him. Just like he did when he killed Coltec--" 

"Richie," he interrupted, his voice assuring, "let me handle this. I want you to make a promise to me, however. Stop the headhunting. It is wrong and we both know it. You can return to my home with me and I will take over your teaching. And you stay away from MacLeod from now on. Agreed?" 

"No," he stubbornly insisted. "I don't need another teacher. Besides, there can be only one, Michael. It might as well be me." 

He stood then, turning his back on the man and reaching for his jacket. He caught a reflection in the mirror on the wall and narrowly sidestepped the sword that would have run him through. 

Richie quickly snatched up his own weapon and turned in time to defend the second blow from Michael's sword. He stared in disbelief at this. . .this man, his friend. Trying to kill him. 

"The first lesson I teach you is this one, boy," Michael began. "Never, ever turn your back on one of your own. Friend or not." 

Richie attacked him, his anger mounting. Michael was a skilled fighter and he easily deflected the sword thrusts. "Lesson number two, never attack in anger. It dulls your senses. Lesson number three, never let your guard down." 

Ryan saw that one coming though, and caught the blade of Michael's sword with his own, knocking it from his hand and rendering him unarmed. The man had no weapon. He was at Richie's mercy. 

Ryan hesitated then. How easy it could be to swung his sword and take the life of this man. His friend. Was he that type of man, though? Was he the type to kill his friend in cold blood? 

A slow smile stretched across the face of the ancient Immortal as he answered, "No. You're not the type. Congratulations. You've just taken the first steps toward reclaiming your soul." 

The sword fell from Richie's hand then, landing on the floor with a loud clang. He trembled with the knowledge of what he had almost done. 

"I'm sorry," he whispered on a broken voice. "Oh, God, Michael, I am so sorry." 

The man rested a consoling hand on his shoulder then, insisting, "We all slip from time to time. The important thing is finding your way back. And never forgetting who you really are." 

"You set me up," he realized then. "You let go of your sword just to see if I would kill you. What if I had?" 

"But you didn't," he pointed out. "One day, I hope to teach you the lesson that I learned centuries ago. About the ones we choose." 

"I don't understand." 

"Neither did I at first. But you will. Until then, get some rest." 

* * *

**Chapter 18**

Michael awoke early the next morning. He rolled out of bed and felt--nothing, he belatedly realized. Richie Ryan was gone. 

For a moment, he silently tried to convince himself that the boy had simply gone out for breakfast or something. But he knew better. In his heart, he knew Richie had left. 

He strolled through the empty hotel room then. All of Ryan's things were gone, reinforcing what he already knew. A note lay on the coffee table, and he reached for it. 

"Michael, By the time you read this, I will be gone. Please, don't try to follow me again. I will always appreciate what you have done for me. You are my friend. But so is MacLeod. I thought all night about what you said. The thing about the people we choose. I think I might understand it. It is about the people we choose to care about, right? The ones we choose to put our self on the line for. I think Mac is worth that effort. He would do the same for me. And you are worth that effort, too. That is why I can't let you face MacLeod. Not over his Dark Quickening, anyhow. That is why I am on my way back to Seacouver. I have to know what has happened with him and my friend Joe. I have to know if I can help in some way. And, if not, then I am willing to face the consequences, no matter what they are. You were always big on the Bible and I can't remember the verse, but it is the one about how friends are willing to die for one another. I hope this makes sense to you. And I sincerely hope that I see you again some day. Richie." 

* * *

**Chapter 19**

Methos stared down at the note that was written in Richie Ryan's handwriting. "Richie didn't want you to fight MacLeod," he pointed out. "He plainly says so right here. How can you claim to be a man of honor if you refuse the last request a friend made of you?" 

"This isn't about honor. It is about evil. MacLeod took a Dark Quickening. Someone has to do something about that." 

"Someone did," he stated. "Me. I took him to the ancient waters. He found his redemption. He is not evil anymore." 

"When did you take him to the waters?" he inquired. 

"Not long after the Dark Quickening," he replied. "Michael, you of all people understand the power of an overwhelming Quickening. You have to understand that MacLeod was not himself when he went after Richie in the dojo that night." 

An angry, cold expression had filled the face of Michael, and Methos belatedly noticed it. In a hard voice, he demanded, "Do you mean to tell me that MacLeod was past his Dark Quickening when he killed Richie?" 

Methos stilled then, realizing that he had just made this situation worse, not better. Michael had thought Richie's death was about Duncan's Dark Quickening. Now he realized it wasn't. 

"Yes, but there is another explanation," he hurriedly assured. 

"What other logical reason could there be save MacLeod killed an Immortal who trusted him!" he exploded, his wrath nearly tangible. 

Methos sighed, knowing how lame it sounded even as he answered, "It was. . .Ahriman." 

"Ahriman?" he repeated skeptically. "The Zoroastrian demon of Persia? The evil that comes to the earth every thousand years and an avatar must fight him, right?" 

"Oh, good, you are already familiar with the religious belief." 

"Yes. He's right up there on my list with Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny," he mocked. "You cannot tell me that you buy into such a. . .a ridiculous claim! Why didn't MacLeod just say the Tooth Fairy did it?!" 

Methos was quiet for a moment, but then inquired, "How did you get the name of Michael? I seem to recall that you obtained it from Jonathan. He named you after the angel who once went to battle with Satan and cast him and his demons from Heaven. Satan or Ahriman, there is no difference. And MacLeod was like the angel Michael. The warrior--the avatar--sent to fight the evil." 

"I deal in facts, not convenient excuses! Ahriman was a Zoroastrian legend created after the people were exiled from Babylon." 

"So because it isn't the religion you choose to practice, you disregard it completely?" he argued. "How did the Walls of Jericho fall, Michael?" 

"They fell because Joshua followed the orders given to him by God." 

"According to who? The Bible?" 

"According to my teacher Jonathan. He was there. He witnessed it!" 

"And I was there to witness Ahriman!" he insisted. "You believed Jonathan because he was your friend. I am your friend, too. Believe me. Besides, how long have you lived? How many holy men and prophets have you known over the years? How many miracles and unexplainable phenomenons have you seen with your own two eyes! For pity's sake, you were a friend to Saint John the Divine. The man who foretold Armageddon and the end of time. The man who spoke of the Four Horsemen, even." 

"Yes, I was his friend," he assured. "And I have read _Revelation_ more than you have, I wager." 

"Then tell me how many times he mentioned Babylon?" Methos challenged. "How often did he say that the city would be remembered before Armageddon? You yourself just said that it was the people exiled from Babylon who first believed in Ahriman!" 

"So Ahriman is the reason for Armageddon? He is what brings about the destruction of the world?" he skeptically questioned. "And John the Divine never bothered to mention this? Do you think a fact like that just slipped his mind?" 

"Ahriman was just a name given to describe evil! Much like Lucifer or Satan. Or John's 'Anti-Christ'. Don't be a hypocrite now, Michael! You are the one who always said that there were things in this world that cannot be explained by logic! Just by faith and believing." 

"Yes. But I do not believe in MacLeod." 

"I do," he shouted back. "I owe him. Like I owe you." 

"You owe me nothing," he stated. "I didn't help you because I expected some type of undying loyalty in return." 

"MacLeod helped me, too," he stated. "In much the same way that you did. Kronos came for me a few years ago, you know. He wanted to reunite the Horsemen." 

"I figured he would catch up with you, eventually," he admitted. 

Methos sighed then, a realization dawning on him. "That is why you spent so many years searching for him, isn't it? You were doing it for me. You wanted him dead so that I would be free and never have to worry about Kronos catching up with me again." 

"Too many men died because of the Horsemen," he sighed. "And God only knows how much was sacrificed to stop you. I couldn't take the chance of you returning to them someday," he admitted. "Without you, Kronos was just another want-to-be. Caspian and Silas just followers to anyone's lead. Kronos may have been the leader, but you were the mastermind behind it. I knew that I couldn't kill you. But Kronos. . .Well, he was fair game. I just never managed to catch up with him." 

"MacLeod did. He helped stop them for good. I am free of them forever thanks to him. And, in some ways, you are finally free of the Horsemen, too." 

"And that makes you in his debt. I understand that," he sighed. "I, however, will never be free of the Horsemen. If you are, then I am sincerely happy for you. But they cost me too much and I went farther than I ever dreamed possible to stop the four of you. No, I am not free of the Horsemen. So I owe MacLeod nothing. But you obviously think of yourself as indebted to him. . .so do what you feel you must." 

Methos stood, hesitating visibly. His hand dipped into his coat then, and he produced his sword. A thousand different emotions played across his face as he decreed, "It doesn't have to be this way. Let MacLeod go and it is over." 

"I cannot." 

"Then neither can I," he sighed sadly. 

"If this is what is in your heart," Michael stated. He stood unarmed and made no move to reach for his sword. "You want my head, then take it. I will not fight you. I cannot." 

Methos raised his sword, but could not bring himself to strike the fatal blow. To kill this man would be to kill a part of himself. The part that Michael had helped redeem. To kill his friend would be to become a Horseman all over again. He threw the weapon aside with an angry fling of his arm. "Damn you. I cannot fight you, either." 

"I know," he acknowledged simply. 

"Damn you," Methos repeated. "MacLeod will probably let you take him. Just because he feels so bloody guilty over Richie. He died for his friends, you know." 

"W-What?" he stammered. 

"Ryan died trying to protect his friend, Joe," Methos repeated. "Or at least that is what he thought he was doing at the time." 

Michael sat down on his couch then, sighing heavily as he requested, "Maybe you should tell me everything that happened. . ." 

* * *

**Chapter 20**

Joe and Duncan glanced up when the door to the barge opened and Methos strolled through. 

"Haven't you ever heard of knocking?" Dawson snapped. 

The other man stood still in place, his hands jammed deeply into his pockets and an almost guilty expression on his face. He offered a shrug, pointing out, "What's the point? Mac felt me coming anyway." 

"What's up?" MacLeod asked, sensing the other man was deeply troubled. 

"I just come back from visiting with Michael," he admitted. 

"So you have been having tea with the person who wants Mac's head?!" Joe exploded. "Some friend you are." 

"Joe, it's okay," Duncan assured. "I understand that Michael is Methos' friend." 

"No, you understand nothing!" Methos shook his head in frustration. "Michael was not my friend. He was my enemy. For a very long time, we were enemies." 

"So what changed?" Joe asked. "Why are you now asking for his life to be spared?" 

"I am not doing this for him," he sighed, turning his attention to the Scotsman. "I am doing this for you, MacLeod. This is the end of you, either way. Remember Coltec? Multiply him by about ten, and then you can understand the power of Michael." 

"Then he is evil?" he asked in confusion. "You're afraid of another Dark Quickening?" 

"No. Just the opposite," Methos insisted. "Michael is good. Much like your Darius. But he is powerful. Think about this for a moment, remember when Richie took the head of Alec Hill? All of a sudden he started smoking and he took up an interest in music. Those were not Richie's personality traits, they were Alec Hill's coming out in Richie. Or when he took Mikey's Quickening, he started collecting trains." 

"He did that because they reminded him of Mikey," Duncan disagreed, the face of the mentally disabled Immortal filling his mind. 

"Then why did he take an avid interest in the law after he took Mako's head?" he challenged. "Because he wanted to be reminded of the man who killed his girlfriend? I don't think so. Richie never told you this, but he took several courses in pre-law while in New Orleans. But the Richie in him was stronger than the Mako, so he dropped it and went back to living life as Richie Ryan would have. Come on, MacLeod! You cannot tell me that you have never developed a personality trait of another Immortal after you took his head!" 

"We both know I had the Dark Quickening after I killed Coltec. So, yes, I took on the personality of other Immortals." 

"A thousand years ago, Darius lead his armies to the Gates of Paris," Methos recited the history. "He could have ruled the world. Only he took the head of a holy man, and that man's Quickening changed him. He was evil, and then he became good." 

"I know," he assured. "It was just the opposite as mine. It was a Light Quickening." 

"That holy man was once a warrior. His name was Jonathan. He was Michael's teacher," Methos revealed. "Once upon a time, Jonathan and Michael and another Immortal banded together with one purpose in mind: To destroy the Four Horsemen." 

The revelation started MacLeod. "That is why you and he were enemies." 

"Yes. You see, when Jonathan found Michael, he was no one. Just a nameless, orphan boy who was playing on the banks of the Jordan River. Jonathan called him Michael after the angel who had once done battle with Satan and cast him from Heaven. Jonathan and his own teacher turned Michael into one of the world's greatest warriors. But they kept his heart--and their own--pure in the process. They used their powers for good rather than evil, shall we say. We--The Horseman, that is--gave our own name to Michael. We called him their 'Angel' because he was so bloody noble. And we readied ourselves to do battle with him and his two friends because we knew they were coming for us." 

"What happened?" 

"They lost," Methos stated with a twist of irony. "But they also won. Michael was the warrior of the three. Jonathan was the wisdom. And the third man was their leader. He was very old and very strong. His name was Adam. . ." 

* * *

**Chapter 21 The Bronze Age**

"We have not had a successful raid in months!" Kronos swore, angrily kicking Silas' leg as he stepped over the sleeping man and stomped towards his friend. "Those blasted fools! They have given us no peace. We must stop them now, Methos! Once and for all." 

"I intend to," Methos assured, standing to his feet. His sword was in hand. "They have sent us a challenge. Their leader to fight me in a private battle to the death." 

"Their leader versus ours? Then it should be me who takes the fight!' 

"Adam made the challenge to me." 

Kronos hesitated visibly then. Things had been different between he and Methos since that witch Cassandra had corrupted the mind of his friend. She had escaped them nearly a decade ago, but sometimes he felt that Methos had left with her. He had sensed a certain restlessness in the man since. And it had only gotten worse since the three Immortals had been on their trail. 

"Fear not, brother," Methos tried to reassure. "I will end this now and the Horsemen will ride again by nightfall." 

Kronos sighed in relief then. He saw the old Methos in this man's eyes. The one who wanted to dominate and conquer and rule the world just as he did. "May luck be with you, brother." 

"Ready the others," he insisted, grasping his brother's arm in a symbol of unity. "We will ride tonight. Free and clear of Adam, Jonathan, and their 'Angel' Michael." 

Stepping past his brother, he reached for the reigns of his horse and easily swung into the saddle. He spurred the animal forward, racing to meet the Immortal who had challenged him this day. 

He had ridden hard for nearly an hour when he felt the stirring presence of one of his own. He slowed the mount then, guiding it towards a small village. He and the other Horsemen had tried to raid it the other day, but Adam and his two faithful friends had stood in their path. The village was deserted now, the occupants hastily evacuating in fear. 

Adam awaited him there, though. He swung from his horse, landing with the grace of a cat, and walked the rest of the way. The other Immortal stood in the center of the village and Methos laughed loudly at the sight of him. 

_This_ was Adam? He shook his head in amused disbelief. The man looked to have experienced his first death around the age of fifty. He was short and round and squat. The sun bared down on a shiny baldhead and rosey red cheeks. And his eyes. . .a hint of fear raced through Methos at the sight of those eyes. They were very, very old and wise. And a bit sad, too. Perhaps he would be wise to not underestimate Adam. 

Balancing his sword in his hand, Methos decreed, "You should have sent Michael in your stead. I heard he is a warrior." 

"Yes," Adam agreed. "Few can fight as he does. The fire in him will burn for thousands of years." 

"Unless he loses his head," Methos reminded. "And he will. Right after you." 

The smile of wisdom touched his lips then and he retrieved his own sword, revealing, "Without me, Michael and Jonathan will be fine. But without you, the Horsemen will be nothing." 

"The Horsemen will rule the world!" Methos screamed, attacking the other man. 

Adam raised his blade in defense. Their fight was brief and futile. He knew he was no match for Methos. But he had known that even before he came here. Michael had begged for the opportunity to take this fight himself. But that was not what Fate had intended this day. 

Adam felt his sword being knocked from his hand as he was driven to his knees by the force of Methos' assault. Yes, he had known it would be this way. Still, it did not make it any easier. 

Methos slowly stalked around the other Immortal, his sword to Adam's throat. "You lose," he chuckled. 

"No," Adam disagreed, a softness in his eyes. "I believe I win." 

Methos shook his head at the insane logic. He raised his sword and struck the fatal blow, claiming his Immortal life. He stepped back from the body then and awaited the Quickening. 

It took him, filling him with the spirit of Adam. 

Changing him. 

Methos felt it. He tried to fight it. He could literally feel the battle within himself, ripping him apart. He tried to push aside the goodness of Adam as it filled him. But there was no stopping it. He could feel a sense of peace settling in his soul. It erased the bitterness and anger. And it filled him with guilt. What had he done? The people he had killed. The lives he had taken. . . 

"Oh, God!" he sobbed, falling down into the dirt. "What have I done? What have I done!" 

  


Methos wasn't sure how long he lay beside Adam's body, crying bitter tears. The regrets and remorse were enough to make him wish he had died instead. Adam was right. He had lost this time. 

Adam. He could feel the other man inside of his soul. 

He felt the presence of another Immortal then. He forced himself to glance up as two men walked toward him. _Michael and Jonathan_ the voice of Adam whispered to him, soothing his worries. 

A groan of remorse slipped from Michael's lips at the sight of his dead friend. He moved to stand over Methos, withdrawing his sword and raising it for the fatal blow. 

Methos squeezed his eyes shut to block out the sight of his own life coming to an end. He had no desire to fight this man. His friend. No, Adam's friend. The sound of swords colliding filled the air. Yet he did not die. 

He opened his eyes then to see Jonathan's sword withdrawn. The other man had used his weapon to block the fatal strike. 

"Why?" Michael demanded. "He has taken the life of Adam." 

"Nay," Jonathan shook his head, the light of knowledge in his eyes. "This was Adam's choice." 

"To die was not his choice," he disagreed. 

The older man smiled with patience that was beyond measurement. "In time, you will understand about them." 

"Them?" 

"The ones we choose, Michael. The ones _we_ choose. My time will come, as Adam's has. When it does, I pray you will accept my decisions." 

"I do not understand," he admitted. 

"All you need to understand this day is that Adam is in Methos now. The goodness has merged with the evil. What he is becoming and what he has been will fight for control of his soul. It is a battle he will fight for the rest of his Immortal life. He cannot deny what must be. You will see to him, Michael. I leave him to your care now. " 

Michael stood firmly in place. He had no desire to help this man. This killer. It went against all that he had been taught by Jonathan and Adam. Adam. . .if any part of the man lived, if any of his goodness stilled existed, then it was now in Methos. 

"Come with me if you wish to free your soul of the Horsemen," he stated simply. When Methos made no move, he turned his back on the man and walked away. Jonathan followed him. 

Methos struggled to his feet, watching their backs as they walked away from him, trekking north. They had offered him redemption and, dare he even conceive this notion, forgiveness, as well. 

But he had won, he tried to tell himself over and over. The Four Horsemen had won. All he had to do was return to Kronos and the others. They could rule the world now. 

But he had no desire to rule the world. He had no wish to kill or rape or destroy ever again. The Horsemen were waiting south of him for his return. 

With that knowledge in mind, he turned north and followed Michael. 

* * *

**Chapter 22**

Silas stood in the same spot he had been in for over ten hours. Kronos shook his head in amazement. The man had not moved a muscle since Methos had left. 

Silas had been against the notion of Methos leaving alone. He had insisted that "nothing good" would come of it. Kronos had brushed aside his petty fears. But now. . .now he was starting to regret it as well. 

He had stood beside Silas and Caspian and witnessed The Quickening from a distance. He had laughed and proclaimed Methos the champion. And had told them all they had to do was await his return so they could ride again. 

And waited they had. And waited. . . 

Yet Methos still had not come back to them. 

"He is dead," Caspian decreed, chewing a piece of dried meat. 

"Do not say that!" Silas screamed in rage. "Never say that!" 

"You saw the Quickening as did I," Caspian reminded. "Methos is dead and he must be avenged." 

"He is not dead!" Silas insisted. 

"Caspian is correct," Kronos finally agreed. "Come, we must do as he says. We will find those three and take their heads." 

"Nay," Silas insisted. "He is alive and will return to us. I will stay here until he does." 

"Do not be a fool," Caspian hissed. 

"I will take _your_ head for that!" 

Kronos narrowly intervened, stepping in between the two at the last second. This had always been Methos' place to stop the fighting between Caspian and Silas. But Methos had not returned to them. That could only mean one thing. 

The thought twisted his gut with rage and remorse. His friend. His brother. Yes, Michael and his friends would pay for this. He would find them, but he would not spend the entire time breaking up the fights between these two. 

"Enough!" he screamed. "We are brothers. We will not fight amongst ourselves. Ever. Silas, Caspian and I are going to find Adam, Michael, and Jonathan and take their heads." 

"I will not leave this place until Methos returns," he decreed. 

"Then you stay," he ordered, his heart grieving this moment. The end of his Horsemen. They were only three now. And with Silas refusing to ride with them, they would soon become just two. "Get your horse, Caspian. We ride. . . " 

* * *

**Chapter 23**

"So that is how the Four Horsemen disbanded," Joe sighed in awe. 

"Yes," Methos sighed, eying MacLeod. "And now you know how and why I left them. I am not much different than your Darius. Or you. The Quickening of Adam changed me. Do you remember the ancient spring I took you to after your Dark Quickening? The one with the powers to heal the soul?" 

"Yes," Duncan nodded. 

"How do you think I knew about it?" 

"Michael," he realized. 

"Yes. He told me about the waters once. After I killed Adam, I spent decades learning from him and Jonathan. Michael taught me the most valuable lesson a man can learn--the power of forgiveness. He forgave me for killing Adam. And, because of that, I was able to find some semblance of peace. I was finally able to deal with my demons, get past my own guilt, and live with myself. And from Jonathan I learned wisdom. Heaven knows, he certainly had enough of it to share. I learned something other than swords and fighting and death from him. There were mysteries and wonders to this world that I had never conceived before. Books and languages and philosophies and I was eager to learn them all. Michael saw that and was pleased. It made it easier for him to leave me and Jonathan behind. That was when he set out to destroy what was left of the Horsemen. 

"But, by then, Silas had disappeared. Kronos and Caspian had parted ways. The Horsemen were no more, but Michael still felt that they were evil and had to be stopped. He searched for centuries for the other three. But he always managed to get sidetracked along the way. Whether it be The Crusades or The Holy Wars. Even the French Revolution, I think. After Jonathan's death, he lost some of that fire. He even settled down in Georgia for awhile. It was around the late 1860's, I believe. It was the last time I saw him until a few days ago. Something. . .something bad happened to him there, and so he went into his 'Save The World' mode and began hunting Kronos again, only this time with a vengeance. I think a small part of him feared I would reunite the Horseman again someday. 

"But I had no desire to go back to that way of life," Methos assured. "I had changed too much by then. Adam's Quickening was mostly responsible for that. I think he knew what it would do to me. And a thousand years ago, Jonathan met Darius at the Gates of Paris with the same purpose in mind. He knew he would either destroy something evil or change it into something good. And the same will happen to you. Michael is too powerful. He is too old and too wise. He will either take your head or you will become him." 

"You don't know that," Duncan disagreed. "I am not evil and neither is he. Besides, you didn't turn completely into Adam and Darius didn't turn into Jonathan!" 

"Didn't he?" he countered. "He went from a very cold, heartless warrior to a holy man, like Jonathan was. As for myself. . .maybe I didn't take on every aspect of Adam's personality, but the majority of me was changed. I still use his name. I have for hundreds of years. Whether it be Dr. Benjamin Adams or Paul McAdams or Adam Pierson, I cannot seem to stop calling myself that. My conscience sounds like his voice sometimes. I can still hear him telling me what is right and what is wrong. You found redemption from your Dark Quickening. But this type. . .this type is different. I don't think you can fight this. I am not even sure I would want to if I could." 

"Then maybe that is the difference between you and I--" 

"When are you going to get it through your thick, Scottish skull!" he exclaimed. "This isn't about age or wisdom or what is good and what is bad! It is about passion. You have that, but so does Michael! He has had it for thousands of years. He is stronger than you in that aspect. If he wins the fight, then he takes your head and it is over. But if you are the victor in the fight, you take his Quickening and he still wins!" 

"That is a chance I have to take," MacLeod sighed. "He has challenged me. I won't run." 

Methos sighed then, a deep, soul weary sound. "He's waiting for you." 

"Where?" Duncan asked, listening as Methos reluctantly gave him directions to an abandoned warehouse on the South side of the city. 

He stood then and reached for his coat, unable to avoid the worried expressions of his two friends. He offered then a reassuring smile, stating, "I'll see you guys around." 

Dawson watched him leave the barge before standing himself. 

"Where are you going?" Methos asked. 

"I'm his Watcher," he reminded. "Someone has to record this. The day one good and decent man killed another because they were both stubborn asses." 

* * *

**Chapter 24**

Michael stood in the center of the abandoned warehouse, absently testing the weight of the ancient sword in his hand. Jonathan had given it to him three thousand years ago. He knew that stronger weapons with more finesse and outward beauty had been forged since that time. But this one had served him too well to ever give up. Until now, perhaps. 

He smiled sadly as he thought of his former teachers. The lessons they had taught him over the centuries had served him well. Now they were both gone. Only he remained of the three. And perhaps he was starting to understand them better. This day he was to learn the final lesson they had taught him. 

_The ones we choose._

The haunting words of Jonathan filled his mind. Yes, he understood now. He thought he had in the past, but he had not fully understood until recently. It had taken Richie Ryan to help him gain a better knowledge. But it was his conversation with Methos this morning that had finally driven that final lesson home. He knew what it meant now. And what he had to do. He owed this much to Richie. 

He turned as he felt the presence of MacLeod fill the old building. His dark eyes studied the man. This man was the one who had fulfilled the prophecy of his old friend Cassandra. And, according to Methos, this was the man who had defeated the great evil Ahriman. But at what cost to the world? At what cost to himself? 

The life of Richie Ryan. . . 

That had been the cost. He saw it MacLeod's eyes. The Highlander had changed so much since last they had seen one another. He was older. Wiser, even. 

He was the one that had been chosen. Whether Michael liked it or not, this one was the choice. 

MacLeod watched the other man as well. For all the change that had happened to him, Michael seemed exactly the same. Except maybe a little sadder. This man had cared for Richie Ryan like a brother. And now he wanted revenge for that loss. 

"I don't want to fight you," he spoke first. 

"There is no other choice," Michael decreed. "I do this to honor Richie's decisions." 

"Richie wouldn't want this," Duncan disagreed. "This is what _you_ want. It is about your own over-grown sense of justice and honor. Don't blame this on Richie. He would never want to see two of his friends fight to the death." 

"You understand nothing," the ancient man decreed. 

"I understand that you want to make me pay for Richie's death," he sighed. "But there is nothing you can do to that will punish me any more than I already punish myself. I _live_ with it." 

"We all have things we live with," he sighed. "And die with." 

Michael attacked him then, and Duncan barely withdrew his katana to block the assault. MacLeod defended himself against the surprisingly awkward blows of the other man's sword. He fought like a man with little experience with a weapon, certainly not the warrior he was legended to be. 

Joe and Methos stepped into the doorway then, standing in the shadows and watching the fight. If that was what one could even call it. Methos had a strange sense of déjà vu the whole time. 

This was not Michael. Not the great warrior he had once known. 

He flinched when Michael lost his footing on a broken board, going down on his knees as his sword flew from his hand. Methos flashed back in that instance to another fight. His and Adam's. 

"Oh, no," he groaned, a sick reality settling in the pit of his stomach. Michael had not come here today to fight. He had come here to die. Did he still believe MacLeod was evil from the Dark Quickening? Was he hoping to change that? 

"Do it," Michael ordered to the man who stood over him, sword in hand. "It was meant to be this way." 

Duncan raised his katana, hesitating. He didn't want to kill this man. Not because he feared what might become of him. But because Michael was not evil. He was good. And there was such a shortage of their own kind that was like him. 

He saw the years of knowledge and wisdom that lay in the man's eyes. So much of that would be lost if he died this day. He had no fear of "becoming like" Michael. There were worst things one could be. He knew. He had been them at one time or another. He simply had no desire to kill this man. 

He lowered his sword then, stating, "No. This ends here, Michael." 

"No!" he shouted back. 

"Yes," Methos called out as he walked towards them. "The world needs you. Both of you. And that isn't just Methos talking. It is Adam." 

"You cannot interfere," Michael reminded. 

"There is nothing to interfere with," Duncan stated, lowering his sword. "I won't kill you. It's over. Walk away. I am." 

With mounting frustration, Michael watched as the Scotsman did as he had proclaimed. MacLeod slipped his sword back into his jacket and walked away. He slowly rose then and did the same. 

MacLeod joined Joe at the doorway, glancing over his shoulder to see Michael walking towards an exit at the back of the warehouse. Methos still stood rooted in place, his eyes following his old friend until he had left the crumbling building. 

Methos knelt then and picked up Michael's sword. In three thousand years, he had never known his friend to part from this. Much less voluntarily leave it behind. He turned and walked back to Dawson and MacLeod then. 

"So that was the great Michael?" Joe barked. "He doesn't seem like much of a warrior to me." 

"He didn't come here to fight me, did he?" MacLeod pointedly asked the five thousand-year-old man. "That was his idea of suicide. Why?" 

"Because of me," Methos realized. "And Richie." 

* * *

**Chapter 25**

Methos entered the old church that had once been the home of Darius. And, before him, Jonathan. Michael sat in the front row and he didn't bother to turn at the presence of another Immortal. 

Methos walked the short distance and sat down beside him. 

"How did you find me?" Michael asked, never taking his eyes off of the altar. 

"It wasn't that hard. You always came here to think," he reminded. 

"No, I used come here and talk to Jonathan," he corrected. 

"You mean Darius." 

"No, I meant Jonathan. He was in Darius. He helped change Darius into the good man he was." 

Methos nodded, reaching into his long coat and producing Michael's sword. "Speaking of Jonathan, I believe he meant for you to keep this with you at all times." 

Michael eyed the weapon, slowly shaking his head, "No. I don't want it anymore." 

"You don't have a choice," he insisted. "Otherwise, some little punk headhunter is going to come along and he won't hesitate to do what MacLeod refused. Unless. . .unless that is what you want. The whole ride over here, I kept trying to tell myself that your pitiful excuse for a fight was just a charade. You were testing MacLeod like you tested Richie Ryan. Like you even tested me once. Were you trying to see if he was still evil?" 

"No. After you told me you had taken him to the holy waters, I knew he wasn't evil anymore," he admitted. "And that changed everything. I came here to avenge Richie, instead you challenged me to honor his choices." 

"You're babbling," Methos complained cheerfully. "You know I can't follow you when you do that. Just answer me simply: Did you intend for MacLeod to take your Quickening or not?" 

"It was suppose to be Richie," he softly revealed. 

"What was?" 

"The one I chose. The man who took my Quickening. I wanted it to be Richie. He was my choice. He would have continued my work after I was gone." 

"You-you _wanted_ Richie Ryan to kill you?" he angrily demanded. He had feared this was the case when he saw the fight. Michael had not been himself. He had not had the same passion he had once fought with. Michael had wanted to die. He had seen it in the man's eyes. "Why? Just explain to me why?" 

"Because I am tired," he sighed, blinking back tears. "I am so damn tired. Of losing the people I love. Of burying friends. Of watching good men die. I am tired of killing and fighting." 

"It is because you try to be the bloody sword of justice for the whole world!" he accused. "Of course you're tired. After three thousand years of playing Superman, who wouldn't be? But the world is not ready to lose you. I am not ready to lose my friend. You're too good. Too important." 

"I've lost my fire," he admitted. "I knew that over a hundred years ago when. . ." 

"When your family died," he finished. He had tried so bloody hard to save Michael's wife and adopted children after they had been shot by robbers, but he had failed in the end. Mortals were so fragile. They slipped away so easily. "I saw the light in your eyes dim that night. And I felt responsible." 

"I never blamed you," he assured. "You were a good doctor. You did all you could." 

"But it wasn't enough. You saved me from destroying myself once. You and Jonathan and Adam helped me redeemed my soul from its own evil. You offered me forgiveness. And when the time came to help you, I failed. All I wanted was to repay that debt in some small way. And I couldn't do it. I couldn't save your family. I failed my friend when he needed me most." 

"We've all failed our friends," Michael stated. "The ones we choose. . .and yet we still fail them." 

"You didn't fail your family," he insisted. 

"I felt like I did. And I just wanted to die with them," he admitted. "But I had vowed to destroy the other three Horsemen, so I forced myself to go on. To try and stop them. I wanted them dead and I lived it and breathed it for a hundred years. And then I heard that you and MacLeod had killed them. I knew then that it was time for me to go. It was time for me to do what Jonathan and Adam had done. Adam chose you, you know. He wanted you to take his Quickening. And Jonathan meant his for Darius." 

"And you meant yours for Richie Ryan," Methos sighed. "You wanted him to finish your work." 

"He was a good person. He would have done well, I think." 

"Yes. Richie was good," he agreed. "So good that he was willing to sacrifice his life for Joe's. Or at least that is what he thought he was doing the night he died." 

"'Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends'," he quoted the Biblical scripture that Richie had once referred to. 

"Michael," he hesitantly asked, "if you meant for him to take your Quickening, then why did you leave him with MacLeod? Why not take him with you? Why not make him kill you five years ago in Kansas City?" 

"I thought it would be easier in the end if I distanced myself from him," he revealed. "Why do you think Adam or Jonathan never chose me? To live with killing a teacher or close friend is a difficult thing. When the time came for Richie to take my head, it would be easier for him if I were not his teacher. As for the last time I saw him. . .Kronos was still alive. I wanted him dead before I carried through with my plans. And then I heard the Horsemen were dead, save you. But so was he, by that time." 

"So you came after his killer?" 

"Yes. But you made me realize something this morning. Richie may have been my choice, but MacLeod was his. He believed in MacLeod enough that he had been willing to die for him. Do you know how rare that type of loyalty and faith is?" 

"I do," he admitted. "So let me see if I understand this: You chose Richie. Richie chose MacLeod. And that made MacLeod your choice by default?" 

"Richie believed in his friend. He thought MacLeod could be the one of us left in the end. Perhaps he was right. And with my Quickening. . .well, it would have made him twice as powerful as he already is. Your fears were unfounded. He would have never 'became' me. His spirit was too strong for that. I just would have made him stronger. Harder to defeat. And Richie's choice would have been honored." 

"The world isn't ready to lose you, Michael," he proclaimed. "I am not ready. Besides, Adam whispers in my soul that you still have too much work to do to here." 

"I don't have the fire anymore. I haven't in a long time." 

"Then take a vacation! Stop trying to be the defender of the world. You can't solve everything and everyone's problems. Take a decade or two and go--go bar hopping. Or pick up some girl in a nightclub and have a meaningless fling." 

"I've never had a meaningless fling before," he reminded. 

"I know, it's against your religion," he snapped. "Well, do it anyway! Go get lost in some tropical paradise and heal your soul. Find that fire that I know is still inside you. You are still Michael of Jordan. The Angel who disbanded the Horsemen. The last of your kind. And the world will need you again, eventually." 

Michael sighed then, rubbing his weary eyes. "I don't know. . ." 

"I do," Methos insisted, offering him his sword a second time. "And you should listen to me because I am older and wiser than you, kid." 

He smiled half-heartedly at the attempt to cheer him up. "Yeah," he agreed. "But I'm better looking." 

"The women only like you because you have that tall, dark, mysterious thing going for you!" 

"Oh, you always make excuses," Michael complained, gently reaching out and taking his sword from the other man's hand. 

Methos smiled in relief then, quietly stating, "Do you know that the pyramids in Egypt are astounding this time of year. . ." 

* * *

**Chapter 26**

Duncan MacLeod sat at the bar of Joe's blues club, quietly sipping a beer. It had been several weeks since his encounter with Michael. The other Immortal had left Paris that day. . .but so had Methos. He secretly believed that Methos was with Michael, wherever he was. Perhaps returning the favor that Michael had once done for him. Methos was now the one helping his friend come to terms with himself. 

"I tell you, Mac," Dawson sighed, "I honestly thought you were a goner a few weeks ago. I mean, the way Methos was talking. All that stuff about Light Quickenings and how it changed him and Darius. . .It does make you wonder, doesn't it? I mean, Adam chose Methos. Jonathan chose Darius. And I think Michael chose you." 

"I don't want to be his _choice,_ " MacLeod insisted. "I agree with Methos. He is too good and too important to lose because he thinks it is his duty to 'choose' someone like his friends before him did." 

He turned on his stool then, sensing the presence of one of his own. The door swung open then and Methos strolled through, whistling a chipper tune. He sat down beside MacLeod, acting as if they had parted only hours ago, not weeks. 

"A beer, barkeep," he requested. 

Dawson grumbled under his breath, but moved to get the drink anyhow. 

"Where have you been?" MacLeod asked. 

"Egypt," Methos revealed. "The pyramids are astounding this time of year." 

"So a friend told me recently," Duncan replied with a smile. "How is Michael?" 

"He's finding his fire again," Methos stated with a relieved smile. 

"I'm glad to hear it," MacLeod assured. 

"So am I. When I left him, he was flirting with a cute tourist guide. Not that there is really anything she can tell him about Egypt that he doesn't already know. I think he was just playing along to amuse her. Or me. Or himself," he pondered aloud, accepting the beer Joe sat before him. "You will keep an eye on him for me, right, Joseph?" 

"Sure," Dawson promised. 

"Uh, MacLeod, he wanted me to apologize to you for everything that happened." 

"I understand why Michael came after me," Duncan assured. 

"No, you don't," Methos disagreed. "It wasn't entirely about Richie. It was about the ones we choose." 

"What does that even mean?" Joe demanded. 

"I don't know," Methos laughed. "Maybe it means something different for every man. For Adam, it was about the one he chose to redeem. For Jonathan, it was about the one he chose to carry on his work. Richie Ryan thought it was about the ones we put ourselves on the lines for. Our friends. For Michael. . .who knows what it means for him." 

"He knows," MacLeod assured. "Wherever he is right now and whatever he is doing, he knows." 

"What do you think it means?" Methos suddenly asked. 

"I don't know," Duncan sighed. "I rather like Richie's definition. Maybe it is about the people we choose to care for. Friends who are worth putting our own lives on the line for." 

Methos smiled at that. Perhaps it made sense. Michael had put himself on the line for his friends, including Methos. Richie had done it for Duncan and Joe. MacLeod had done it for him in the past. As had Joe, numerous times. 

"To the ones we choose then," he proclaimed, raising his glass in a toast and clicking it with Joe's and the Highlander's. 

"To the ones we choose." 

**THE END**

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© 2001   
Please send comments to the author! 

3/28/2001 

Background by Daire 

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